Days passed, strung together by laughter, quiet work, and soft touches. Nael had carved out a rhythm, splitting his time between helping Farah on the farm and editing the footage he had nearly forgotten he'd taken. The farm had changed him—not loudly, but completely.
Then came the letter.
It arrived in the morning post. A cream envelope with gold lettering:
"World Documentaries Fellowship – Finalist Invitation: Present your journey at the International Film Symposium, Paris."
Nael stared at it for a long time.
Paris. A dream that once lit every corner of his ambition.
Now, it only stirred dust.
Farah found him on the porch, the envelope open beside his untouched tea.
"You got it," she said quietly.
He nodded. "Yeah."
Her voice was steady. "So you'll go."
"I don't know."
Farah sat beside him, close but not touching. "You should. It's what you've worked for."
Nael finally looked at her. "But what if I lose this?"
She smiled, small and brave. "If it's real, you won't."
That night, he stayed up watching the footage—of orchards, of sheep, of Farah laughing as she chased a runaway chicken. He spliced it together with old scenes from mountaintops, faraway markets, city trains.
It wasn't about the flower anymore.
It was about her. About here.
The next morning, he handed Farah a flash drive. "For you. If I go, this stays."
She took it, heart tight. "And if you don't?"
"Then we keep writing our own story."
Farah swallowed. "When will you decide?"
He reached out and brushed a leaf from her hair. "Soon."
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the orchard, Farah found herself standing at the gate, staring down the empty road.
And wondering if sometimes love meant letting someone go... and hoping they find their way back